


Church Politics

by thebarstool



Category: Death Note
Genre: A just rolling his eyes for eternity, An ordinary day with your favorite psychologically damaged orphans, Asexuality, B has his fingers crossed, B is a creepy loser, B thinks humans are gross cesspools of disease and drama, Codependency, Gen, If Roger finds out he might finally blow his brains out, In which A isn't even surprised, Orphans need jesus, This isn't even the weirdest thing he does, Voyeurism, just depressed at how many people are getting more action than he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:10:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebarstool/pseuds/thebarstool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>B finds a new hobby. Another thing that A loves is tainted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Church Politics

B’s interest in sex was purely scientific. 

Sex was body fluids. Sex was smells. Sex was emotional complications and disease. B had never had sex, admittedly, but unpleasant, inconvenient, distasteful variables were already all twisted up in his brain. The very idea of it seemed laughable and primitive. A waste of time when he could be dissolving lab rats or spray painting obscenities onto the windows of Roger’s office. 

That being said, B really enjoyed watching other people have sex. 

The act was preloaded with all the intricacies of human nature necessary in becoming the world’s greatest detective. Where else would you see a person laid bare, at their most vulnerable and moronic, slack jawed and grasping; led along on a leash to a momentary pleasure usually tinted with self-loathing and regret? Power dynamics visible and pathetic with no winners, just killing time? It was a festival of human weakness and B was all about that. 

The best place was the chapel. Most of Wammy’s did not subscribe to any sort of dogmatic religious theory but the irony of it made B feel warm inside. B had started going there in part to meditate on various inclinations towards violence and mayhem, to be away from A when he was at his most insufferably self-righteous or to simply dose off in the middle of the day after three days of nightmares and fragmented sleep in the refracted colored light of the stained glass. There was no one around, no numbers, just silence and the fading tinge of incense. 

But as much as B considered himself a forward and original thinker, others came to see the chapel as the perfect place for privacy. 

The first time it was Uri and Irene, an odd pairing given that B had never even seen them speak to each other before and he knew everything about everyone. He’d once made a comprehensive social map of the entire orphanage that had gotten him yet another (pointless) session with the Crowley, the psychologist. The only one who had been more impressed than creeped out had been A. He’d even asked for a copy. 

The most notable factor regarding Uri and Irene was that Uri was a homosexual but that was something he most likely hadn’t realized yet. B almost wanted to make himself known, he was cloistered in shadow at some distance. They wouldn’t see or notice him unless he demanded it, caught up in their own capsule drama as they were. He enjoyed telling people unpleasant truths about themselves. Not that being a homosexual was all that unpleasant but it was fascinating to B just how often the most elemental factors of a person caused the most pointless self-loathing. 

He stopped himself however. The voice at the back of his mind, the only one that practiced that thing called impulse control, told him to wait. Cost-benefit analysis indicated that he should watch. This could be interesting. Let’s see how they function in the wild. 

To say the act itself was revelatory would be gross hyperbole. If anything it was short and sad like most things in life. They kissed gingerly, stiffly in mutual discomfort. Touched carefully not out of consideration but an internal panic that stiffened their limbs, made them seem like they were being pushed together by a child in static, plastic movement. For them, it must have felt like a waste of time. It must have been excruciating.

They remained clothed, exposing only what was necessary to hands and eyes. B watched, rapt, at the fumbling scene. He marveled at how unerotic it was, how they could have rated a better chemistry rating with house plants than with each other. Ah, the awkwardness of youth! The desperation! 

Neither of them had an orgasm but rather seemed to shrivel back into themselves and give up. It must have been a waste of time. A thing to never think about ever again, bleach from the mind with other experiences, denial, self-delusion. 

For B, it was a revelation. Every cautious grasping was rife with data. The wincing, the timing, the silence, the noises or lack there of, averted eyes. Beautiful details. B loved details. He would later steal an extremely expensive pair of binoculars to ensure he didn’t miss any. 

What did details tell him about these two people? They hardly seemed like friends let alone lovers; more like two sad people who had met on a bus on their way back from ASDA. They made B think of marmite and white bread, something boring and borderline distasteful. B could imagine someone sentimental and occasionally stupid like A would be unable to look past the awkwardness of it, would have died right there out of second hand embarrassment. But B enjoyed their suffering for what it was, a genuine tableau of two people in a joyless act. Their reasons for it interested him. why the fuck would you bother? B may have seen it all as primitive and pointless but that didn’t mean he didn’t watch porn or masturbate or realize the function of sex or why other people might want to go all in for it. This seemed rather outside of the mark. It had the residue of an experiment on Uri’s part. A final test for his sexuality or whatever. People did things like that according to television, experimenting. Wammy’s didn’t discourage it to a degree. Roger was aware of teenage “urges” but the unspoken rule dictated that it should remain within the school. The outside world was dangerous and full of kidnappers. A thought keeping it in the family was just a recipe for a level of drama and hormonal garbage that would result quite a few murder suicides. From what he saw in the chapel, B could guarantee it.

It became his new hobby. He kept notebooks on couples and the acts completed, watched with glee as love triangles and fights broke out. People were reckless, got caught with their pants down, cocks out literally, resulting in painful hilarious injuries that were very difficult to explain in the infirmary. Garett’s fractured penis when Margot was too enthusiastic and sat on it was B’s early Christmas present. Margot kicking Renfrew in the face with a boot still on and then spitting on him when he tried to force anal sex. Misogyny, hypocrisy, lust, envy, hatred, violence, pettiness, cruelty: it was a buffet of the worst of humanity and the most hilarious in terms of messiness and awkwardness. The sounds alone made B want to invest in recording equipment.

 

XXXX

 

It was on a Saturday morning when A found out about B’s ongoing project. A liked to sleep in on Saturdays because he was a human being who actually slept and not a vampire fucktard who never slept and left his alarm set to 8 am on purpose so that he didn’t have to be quiet on his way back from breakfast. It was a sound recording of an air raid siren and A stumbled through the common room blindly feeling around for the door frame to B’s room. He wanted his hockey stick too so that he could beat B to death as soon as he came through the door. 

As he knocked against the nightstand to slam down the off button on the alarm, he felt a stack of books fall onto his feet. Hissing in pain, A thought about getting out his handgun from the lockup and just shooting him in the face when the violent orange color clarified in his vision. Set a top the stack of textbooks had been a few small orange notebooks titled Field Notes. He recognized the brand, he used them for case notes and his shitty poetry. Anyone else, A would have assumed the same. Mundane things like class notes. But B didn’t take notes in class. He didn’t give a shit. 

Shitty poetry? 

A felt his heart race in excitement. Definite proof of a God would be A finding B’s shitty poetry. A would suck off a lot of priests just for one poem by B about how no one understands him and the world sucks and ‘Nirvana Rox’ in the margins. Even better would be shitty love poetry. A would whore himself out for 10,000 years just for proof that such a thing existed. He reached for the one closest to him. Fuck privacy, A thought, the concept did not apply to B who often walked right into his room without knocking or consideration while he was changing and talked/insulted him as he got dressed. B also read his journal, he knew. That was why he had five different ones going at a time with various versions of events in an attempt to at least make it difficult for B to invade his privacy. A did not feel guilt. That was reserved for people who obeyed human laws. A only felt anticipation as he flipped open the cover. 

 

When B returned from breakfast and a nice long antagonism session with Roger, he found A still in his pajamas on the floor of his room surrounded by his orange notebooks. B could only smile. It was about time. A looked up at him and the expression on his face was not what one would expect. 

A normal reaction would have been disgust. It would have been a stomping storming off with an armload of orange notebooks and a righteous expression towards Roger’s office. But B had learned in the last few years not to pigeon hole A so easily. He was full of surprises. 

A was fascinated. 

“Not going to report me to Roger,” B asked, leaning casually on the door frame. A looked up from the notebooks, quizzical. 

“Why would I? This is fucked up but not even Jesus himself would want to have this conversation with Roger. Though he should because this orphanage really really needs Jesus if we all think fucking in a church is ok.” 

“It’s very picturesque. It has atmosphere The kneelers come in handy as well.” He grinned. A glared. “You know, for blowjobs.” 

“Yeah. I got that.”

“Just checking. You’re too innocent for this world sometimes.” 

Ignoring him, A set aside one and grabbed one he had placed back onto the nightstand. 

“I need you to clarify something for me.” He flipped to the end of the notebook. “So you say that you followed Xavi and Taylor back to Xavi’s room and that they ‘proceeded to have loud and violent sex to The Lion King soundtrack.” 

“Yes that is correct.”

A’s face was pinched. 

“It wasn’t just ‘Can You Feel the Love Tonight’ on repeat was it?” His voice was flat and dead.

“No, they were fucking from ‘Circle of Life’ to ‘Hakuna Matata.’ You overestimate Xavi’s stamina.” 

“Out of everything, I think this disturbs me the most. Well, that and the idea that anyone would have sex with Xavi at all.” B agreed. Xavi was the worst in every possible way. They were all hoping he would accidentally shoot himself during target practice. He still didn’t grasp the concept of the safety being on when trying to twirl his gun to impress Taylor or when carried it around out of lockup in the back of his waistband and forgot about it until he had to go take a shit. B had watched Xavi perform his weak sexual predator rituals (Xavi had spent a small fortune on a one-on-one course with a “famous Pickup Artist” in the states in order to release his inner jaguar or some shit; incidentally B wanted to keep Xavi in a cage for his own amusement forever and ever) with a dazed glee. He’d almost felt as if he were hallucinating the whole thing. That was why he had followed them (discreetly because if there’s anything B is the best at it’s sneaking around). To verify that someone thought of Xavi as sexually viable. The fact that it had occurred to the Lion King Soundtrack was something he had been itching to tell A but had suppressed due to the inevitable barrage of questions. “I’m quite sure that that CD is the only piece of music he owns because he says everything else is for girls or fags.” A rubbed at his face and dragged his hand over his hair pulling it up into light brown spikes. He got up and threw the notebook as far away from himself as possible as if it were diseased. B followed him into the common room to play Resident Evil and steal the rest of A’s kettle corn. A anticipated this as B collapsed into the bean bag chair in front of the television and console. He grabbed the kettle corn from the table and threw it at B.

“I hope he’s sterile.” A said, at the threshold to his own room for what was now a depressed, obliterating nap at the thought of Xavi still alive at that moment, fucking a human girl instead of a waifu pillow to “Hakuna Matata.” Inside, he felt a private relief that it hadn’t been Toy Story. At least that was still pure. 

B felt an almost genuine fear at the thought of Xavi’s dickface idiot offspring. 

“If not, it can be arranged,” B called out. He just had to figure out how to get plutonium back into the orphanage.


End file.
